


Mens Sana

by ViviTheFolle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Half-Blood Prince AU, Harry and Hermione get reality checks, Legilimency, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Poisoning, Ron Weasley-centric, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-03-25 18:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViviTheFolle/pseuds/ViviTheFolle
Summary: Ron is poisoned on his seventeenth birthday, and is left in a comatose state. However, complications arise, and it's up to Harry and Hermione to save the day... and maybe learn a few things about their best friend along the way.





	1. Restless

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not JKR, I'm not making profit off of this, I'm in love with Ron Weasley, please don't sue me thank you.

The Boy-Who-Lived had been pushed out of the hospital wing as though he was a leper. He tried to reign in his temper, knowing full well Madam Pomfrey was just this way when it came to her patients, but he had to admit that it stung, not being able to see his best friend despite being the one to have saved him from poisoning.

 

Just remembering this… A chill went down Harry Potter’s spine. Cedric’s death had been a terrible shock, some sort of wake-up call, and no matter what he had thought originally, he couldn’t possibly have prevented it: nobody could have known the Cup was actually a Portkey, not even Dumbledore had known. Sirius’ demise, however, was entirely his fault for attempting a rescue mission that had no reason to be thrown together in the first place. He was… lucky that nobody else he cared about had been killed this fateful night.

 

But despite the effect these deaths had had on him, he knew deep down that they wouldn’t possibly be worse than losing Ron. Nothing would compare to the pain he’d suffer. Hell, just by seeing him collapse in Slughorn’s office Harry had felt as though his heart was going to split in two. Whoever was the Half-Blood Prince, he thanked him for enabling him to save his best friend. If Ron died, he wouldn’t possibly be able to face the Weasleys ever again… And what about Hermione? Even though she wasn’t on speaking terms with the redhead at the moment, she did seem to have a soft spot for Ron at times…

 

But Harry, especially, felt like he just wouldn’t survive without his best mate. Maybe he’d live, but it would be so dull, so bland, it would be a chore to simply rise out of bed every day… He’d have to suffer through all these people who’d try to enter in his good graces just because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One or whatever they called him this month… He’d have to chase away the vultures that would try to replace the gangling redhead as ‘Harry Potter’s best mate’… But there was just no replacing Ron. Nobody had seen Harry the same way Ron had, as just Harry, as a boy sitting alone in the train to Hogwarts. Nobody else but Ron had taken a look at the scar, been awed for a few seconds, and then decided that what the great Harry Potter needed most was knowledge about wizard candy and Quidditch. And especially nobody else but Ron could get him out of his moods, get him to enjoy utterly meaningless things or have real fun with. Life just couldn’t be lived without somebody like Ron Weasley.

 

The door to the hospital wing suddenly opened, interrupting Harry in his musings, to let out a rather dishevelled-looking Madam Pomfrey, her bun loosely hanging to the side as though she had been running around all day. Her eyes darted around in concern, before she spotted Harry, seemed to hesitate a bit and then walked up to him.

 

“Mr Potter”, she said carefully, looking as though she thought he was going to burst into tears at any second, “you may enter.”

 

She seemed ready to take him by the hand as if he was a child, but Harry squared his shoulders. He wasn’t _helpless_ , damn it. With purposeful strides, he walked into the hospital wing, eyes searching for Ron… but the only thing he saw were white curtains around what he supposed was his friend’s bed. As he stepped closer to take a peek, the matron almost threw herself in his way, and he almost attempted to curse her aside.

 

“Before I let you in, mister Potter, you have to know something…”

 

“I know he got poisoned, I was there”, Harry snapped before dread settled in instead. “The bezoard did its job, right? He’s not dying… right?”

 

“No, he is out of danger as far as poison is concerned, but his condition is… Well, you’ll know soon enough. I asked for Headmaster Dumbledore to come assist me”, the school nurse answered sternly.

 

And just like that the dam broke. Harry was Dumbledore’s trusted student. He was taking private lessons and journeys into the past of the one who called himself Lord Voldemort. He admired the man, this guiding figure of the wizarding world. If the Headmaster himself had to be called to help his best friend… then it meant something very, _very_ bad had just happened.

 

“What’s happening?” Harry shouted, now overcome with blinding panic. “What do you mean you called for Dumbledore? What’s wrong with Ron?!”

 

“Mister Potter, I let you in because your actions have prevented a tragedy, but I will have no hysterical students in my – Oh, Headmaster!”

 

Madam Pomfrey’s demeanour went from stern to relieved and worried as the venerable bearded wizard entered her ward. He addressed Harry an apologetic smile, before the matron walked to him and started whispering with urgency.

 

Harry strained his ears, but he couldn’t quite catch what they were talking about. He barely managed to catch a word that resembled to ‘comma’, and a dreadful chill creeped in his entrails. Dumbledore then strode over to Ron’s bed and parted the curtains.

 

What the mage intended to do remained lost to Harry because Madame Pomfrey took the opportunity to force him to get a few drops of Calming Draught, telling him the ordeal he had underwent was too much for a young man like him. While the Boy-Who-Lived didn’t appreciate the implication that he was a feeble little thing, he did take the medicine, if only to appease the matron.

 

He observed the tall, pale body of his best friend and a shiver went down his spine once more. The cheerful freckles almost seemed obscene in comparison to Ron’s pained expression that flickered through his unconsciousness. What Harry wouldn’t have given for it all to be a bad joke from the twins… He wanted his friend to twitch, stretch across the bed like an oversized cat, yawn, open bleary blue eyes blurred by sleep and grumble about how early it was. For this uncertain comatose state to be nothing but a quick afternoon nap.

 

“Good grief”, the Headmaster said in a voice that dripped concern, perplexity and… was that awe?

 

“What’s wrong?” Harry immediately pressed. “Tell me! I have to know! Please!” he promptly added, still not forgiving how he had been left in the dark the year before. Sirius had died because of miscommunication and lack of detail, Ron would _not_ fall down the same path. Harry wouldn’t bear it.

 

The old wizard turned to the Boy-Who-Lived, smiling tiredly as he peered over his half-moon spectacles. He looked so much older, suddenly, that Harry felt some sort of shame for being so short with him.

 

“It appears young Mr Weasley has inflicted upon himself a magical coma.”

 

The cold sensation in the pit of Harry’s stomach returned full force. “He’s not going to die?” he pleaded.

 

“No, dear boy, he will not.”

 

For a moment the black-haired teenager was tempted to throw himself over his best friend’s still form and hug him, but Dumbledore wasn’t done speaking.

 

“Magical comas are triggered when one’s life is in great danger, preserving the body in a stasis in order to slowly return it to health. It is one of the strongest manifestations of accidental magic, and it is by no means an acceptable way of healing”, continued the mage. “I do recall the longest one lasted ninety-three years.”

 

Harry gaped as Madame Pomfrey nodded. “A victim of the Cruciatus curse, whose almost every bone was broken in their struggle. Their magic was trying to mend everything back together at the same time.”

 

The bespectacled boy wondered how the Cruciatus, which “only” made you feel unbearable pain, could cause you to break your bones. He then remembered the way he himself had trashed and flung his limbs about, maddened by the sensation of a thousand needles poking through his every nerve, and he shivered with the horror brought by dawning comprehension.

 

“But every near-death doesn’t end up in a magical coma, right?” he realized.

 

“Indeed”, his teacher confirmed with a nod and a smile, visibly happy he was following. “While accidental magic cannot be expected or prompted, it seems the raw, instinctual desire of living is the main cause of such a stasis, which means one must be aware of the danger in the first place. And”, Dumbledore added with a pensive look, “it takes a considerable amount of magical power, as well.”

 

Harry’s head turned to his best friend’s hospital bed. Ron’s strained breathing was, for a few seconds, the only sound to be heard.

 

“How do we wake him up?”

 

Madame Pomfrey suddenly tensed besides Harry and put her hand on his shoulder as if she wanted to drag him away from the truth, but Dumbledore ignored her. “Young Mr Weasley has already been saved by your timely intervention, my boy, and now that he is in the good care of Madame Pomfrey, his magic should have at least loosened its grip… which is why this situation is rather unusual, and will require some… investigating.”

 

Harry was half-tempted to point out that every single situation in which he was involved tended to be “rather unusual”, if not “absurdly deadly and most likely to end with considerable amount of bodily harm” but he resisted the call of sarcasm. Instead, he just observed the Head of Hogwarts walking back to his best friend and drawing his wand out of his purple robes.

 

“ _Legilimens_ ”, Dumbledore said quietly, pointing to Ron’s sweat-dampened forehead.

 

And then it happened; Harry wasn’t sure what he had been expecting but he had certainly not seen _that_ coming.

 

As soon as the tendril of light that erupted from the Headmaster’s wand connected to his best friend’s deathly pale skin, Ron’s arms – the arms that had been so cruelly scarred back at the Department of Mysteries – jerked at his side, his hands clenched into tight fists. Dumbledore, the awe-inspiring, venerable and powerful Albus Dumbledore, staggered backwards and lowered his arm, breaking off the mind-reading spell, to clutch his heart.

 

Harry was at his mentor’s side as fast as he could catch a Golden Snitch. The Headmaster wasn’t even trying to put back together his usual reassuring composure: he was bending forwards, breathing heavily, hands shaking slightly and his piercing blue eyes devoid of their usual twinkle. The Boy-Who-Lived felt suddenly very vulnerable. Had Dumbledore miscalculated? Was it an error in the spellcasting? What had gone wrong?

 

Madame Pomfrey summoned a cosy-looking armchair – Harry wondered if it was only to be used by teachers – and let the old wizard sink in it, before rushing back to her office and returning with another potion that she insisted he drink. The Head of Hogwarts complied, and Harry was struck by how old the Headmaster looked, lightless eyes staring blankly at Ron’s unconscious form, age lines suddenly much more pronounced and forehead wrinkled by unspoken thoughts.

 

The Boy-Who-Lived was seriously beginning to worry. How? Just how could Albus Dumbledore _fail_ a spell? What was happening to Ron? Why did everything have to get complicated when it involved Harry’s friends?

 

“Well, this certainly is a most peculiar development”, the Headmaster muttered, with some sort of grimace that was probably meant to be a smile. Harry was not in the mood for joking around.

 

“What just happened?!” he demanded.

 

Dumbledore leaned back in the chair, taking slow breaths, eyes closed, his expression weary and pained. In a mournful, low voice, he said something that chilled Harry to the bone.

 

“Ronald… refuses to wake up.”


	2. Irony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, smell that sweet sweet denial. Don't you love it so?

“I hope he has the worst birthday of his life”, she thought.

 

Hermione Granger, Gryffindor’s resident know-it-all, was busy scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment, drowning herself in homework as usual. She prided herself on her logic and intelligence, and as such seldom wasted time on feelings and matters of the heart, preferring to ensure a future filled with good marks and praise from her teachers, absorbing their compliments as a plant would the soils’ nutrients.

 

Currently, she was busy overdoing her Potions essay while damning her heart for making her feel this miserable, but she mostly damned the one she considered responsible for her pain.

 

“Damn you, Ronald Bilius Weasley”, she muttered through gritted teeth as she viciously dotted her ‘i’s, leaving her poor quill crushed beyond repair.

 

She would need another ‘therapy session’ with Ginny soon. It consisted of mostly listing every fault and shortcomings of a certain redheaded teenager that happened to be the one she had been cursing in her mind, over and over again. It also happened that she had some affection for said teenager, but just a few more chats with Ginny and she was convinced her silly little crush would go away very soon.

 

After all, she was Hermione Granger! She didn’t have time for _boys_! Well, not any boy anyway. But that was the problem, he just wasn’t any boy. Still, she refused to let her thoughts drift to him, no matter what her stupid heart said or wanted. Her heart couldn’t memorize an entire book like her brain did, her heart couldn’t recall the incantation for the Canary-Conjuring Charm like her brain did, her heart couldn’t get her the best grades in classes like her brain did.

 

All her _stupid_ heart did was give a jolt whenever Ron did this frustratingly endearing grin that only lifted one corner of his mouth – because he was too lazy to bother smiling with both sides, of course! No, that wasn’t true, when he was really happy he beamed with a smile as wide as a mile that revealed perfect pearly white teeth – only because he was a wizard and they had charms to ensure good dentition… She missed that smile, usually it showed up when she smiled to him or when she inadvertently told a joke – when it was the latter it was even better, because before smiling he’d suddenly let out this rich, full-belly laugh that she wanted to hear over and over and – argh!

 

“Okay Hermione”, she thought to herself, “remember the last therapy session…” What did she hate about Ronald Weasley’s laugh? Well, for starters, he laughed all the time and for the stupidest reasons, because he was so immature – but then again, thanks for that, because she just _loved_ the sound of it… No, not his laugh then! Think, think…

 

Of course, his laziness! He _never_ did his homework and neglected his prefect duties and… No, wait, he had been handing his homework along with everybody else these past months – not that she’d been watching or anything… As for prefect duties, well, how would she know, she had requested to not be partnered up with him anymore! But he did show up at the meetings and… Well, who cared, he was still lazy because… Because! She had known him for six years and he had always been only interested in having fun and sleeping late and he didn’t ever listen in History of Magic!

 

There. Obviously, Hermione couldn’t nurture a crush on somebody who wasn’t interested by goblin rebellions.

 

Oh, oh, _oh_! And the way he always defended her, like she was a feeble little thing that needed his protection! Did he really think she was, what, a damsel in distress or something? Okay, gallantry was fine by her; Viktor had been a gentleman, but Ron took it really far; he had belched up slugs for her, for Merlin’s sake!... Drat, now her cheeks were flushing pink. Her inner feminist even had the gall to admit Ron was _chivalrous_. Please! More like overbearing and overprotective! And even though it was really sweet of him – no!

 

And just what was she thinking? Ron, chivalrous? As if! Chivalry implied having some manners, at least! Well, he _did_ have some, he said “thank you” and “sorry”, but when food entered the picture it was everybody for themselves. He crammed food in his mouth till his cheeks were puffed like a cute hamster’s, and she’d call him a pig, and he’d glare at her with an endearing pout… Sometimes he’d forget to swallow before talking, his words muffled and garbled; she liked to believe that only she and a select few were able to understand what almost seemed like a secret language… Certainly _Lav-Lav_ wouldn’t know how to decode “Ron-speak” as well as Hermione did!

 

Well, it didn’t matter, the prefect thought furiously as she pulled a book to her, Potions essay forgotten. She wasn’t speaking to Ron anymore, so there were no more secret messages to decipher at meal times. However, as much as she had tried to ignore him, her mind constantly seemed to wander back to his tall, lean, lanky frame. She still pondered how the hell he managed to be so thin with his appetite combined to his renowned sweet tooth. She remembered how, at Fortescue’s parlour at the beginning of third year, he had devoured two chocolate sundaes before flopping back in his seat, humming happily, and looked at her with a content grin… It had made her a bit – a lot – hot and bothered, and she had gotten a glimpse of all the various blues in his beautiful irises: crystal, cobalt, sapphire, ice, ocean, sky…

 

ARGH! Enough! This _wasn’t_ how you got over a stupid crush!

 

Though, now that she was on the subject, she remembered the incident that went back to a couple of days ago, at dinner, when Ron had been chatting with Harry and he had smeared a little bit of that delicious chocolate mousse on his equally delicious strong jaw. Harry had pointed it out and the dreaded Lav-Lav had tried to kiss it away – but the redhead had reacted faster, first darting his tongue out, then holding up one of his long fingers and wiping the stain away (to Lavender’s audible despair)… But this was Ronald Weasley, and he didn’t let perfectly good chocolate go to waste; Godric bless his heart, he had innocently licked his finger clean. Lavender’s whines had attracted some stares, and a sharp intake of breath from a few bystanders had told Hermione that she wasn’t the only one to enjoy the sight (a fourth-year Gryffindor boy had even dashed to the bathroom for, quote, “Charms practice”). Of course, because this was Ron, he had remained completely oblivious to the wave of sinful daydreams he had caused…

 

She decided then and now to crush her own daydreaming by reminding herself of the painful fact that he was taken. Taken by that girl who had more curves than her, who had a lovelier bosom, who had pretty eyes and straight, sleek hair. Hermione knew she had made heads spin at the Yule Ball, but that was after more than two hours of applying various hair and skin potions, and she had Viktor on her arm to put people into even greater shock, and it didn’t change the fact that her breasts stubbornly refused to venture outside the B-cup category or that her hips were wider than her chest... which didn’t mean a lot, actually.

 

On her better days, she just calmly accepted the fact that she was slightly pear-shaped and there was nothing she could do about it; during the worst days, she could repeat hopelessly the ‘true beauty is on the inside’ or ‘good people see personality first’ mantras, it didn’t stop her from wishing that her enormous backside would switch places with her pea-sized breasts and be done with it. While she was at it, she also wished that this rat nest she called hair would just magically straighten – and she cursed the wizards of old, who crafted spells to make butterflies out of dew drops but didn’t think once of helping young girls better their self-image (conveniently omitting the way she had gotten her teeth straightened in fourth year).

 

But it was okay, really, because it wasn’t her fault. Yes, she was bookish, yes, she was smart – brilliant, even. Hermione knew she was cleverer than all the students of the school put together. So, she was not the prettiest girl? She wouldn’t care. Younger students ran away from her because she ordered them to pay attention in class? Fine, they would be the ones crying over missed opportunities later in life. Harry didn’t spend time with her except to coax her into talking to Ron or asking questions about homework? Alright, he could do whatever he pleased! She was a woman, damn it, she was not a lovesick teenager! She _refused_ to be!

 

It wasn’t her fault after all! The entire blame laid with Ronald Bilius Weasley! He was the misogynistic chauvinist, no matter what his stupid bouts of protective chivalry tried to show! He only looked at girls for their bodies, it was obvious, he hadn’t even seen her as one until fourth year! He was unintelligent and daft and stupid, no matter how good at chess he was! He had no idea what emotions were, he never thought about her feelings, he was egotistic and self-centred and he was an idiot, idiot, _idiot_!

 

Hermione heard a terrible sound akin to paper being ripped and crumpled by a raging fist, and was startled out of her reverie, only to gasp in horror when she realized she had committed the greatest sacrilege of all – defacing her book with her own two hands. The few Gryffindors that had dared to venture closer to her were looking with various levels of curiosity or dread. As she prepared to bark at them to mind their own business or get sent into lifelong detention, the portrait hole sprung open to reveal Professor McGonagall.

 

“Has anyone seen Miss Granger?”

 

Hermione immediately sprung from her seat to come to her favourite teacher, wearing an expression that reminded both of a puppy eager to perform tricks and a soldier saluting their superior. The Gryffindors rolled their eyes, and a few “suck-up” or “brown-noser” escaped in-between exasperated breaths.

 

But Hermione didn’t hear anything, for a Professor had called and she was ready to offer them anything, be it her tears, sweat, blood, or her firstborn child.

 

McGonagall just looked at her with slightly glassy eyes, like she refrained from getting too emotional, and it made the bookworm’s stomach clench unpleasantly. Her Head of House bent down slightly to whisper something in her ear, and as Hermione’s _wonderful_ brain processed the words, her heart almost stopped beating.

 

Even as the seventeen-year-old girl was running to the hospital wing in a despaired frenzy, causing her head to spin and her body to flush, her innards were encased in the creeping chill of terror.

 

Her wish had been granted; Ron was having the worst birthday of his life.

 

And said birthday could very well be his last.


	3. Close-minded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Snape is a git (but what else is new).

Madame Pomfrey had clapped her hand over her mouth. Harry stood numb, his heart throbbing painfully in his ribcage… Suddenly a burst of indignant fury surged through him. Just what was Dumbledore implying?!

 

“Refuses to wake up, or did you fail and blame him?” he spat. The matron gave an outraged gasp but the old wizard smiled sadly. Harry’s heart kept pounding. “What does it mean?”

 

The venerable wizard gave a weary sigh, and turned his head to take a look at Ron’s closed eyes.

 

“He managed to push me out of his mind.”

 

For a second, the last Potter waited for Dumbledore to jump out of his seat and scream “Psych!” but his elder was still gazing at the redhead with a sad expression. It slowly dawned on Harry that this wasn’t a stupid joke or a practical exercise. The look on the Headmaster’s face proved it.

 

“But… You are a master Legilimens!” Harry couldn’t help but blurt out.

 

“I am very flattered by your trust in my abilities, Harry”, Dumbledore said as his eyes twinkled a little. “Occlumency can however take many forms, and Ronald’s method is… particularly effective.”

 

Harry was dismayed. _Ron_ , a master Occlumens? You could read Ron’s mind more easily than a preschool book, because his every thought wrote itself on his body for the world to see. Pink ears meant embarrassment, crinkled long nose meant sarcastic comments were imminent, wide lopsided grin meant laughter to come… Ron wasn’t complicated. He didn’t keep secrets. He was open and honest and _true_.

 

And now Dumbledore was telling him that Ron, carefree and blunt and even insensitive _Ron_ , could force an expert Legilimens out of his mind _while_ being unconscious, but Harry had spent the better part of his fifth year failing at it even though he was perfectly awake?

 

“How is this possible?” he asked, feeling suddenly bitter. What kind of _effective_ method was Ron using anyway? And couldn’t _he_ have taught Harry instead of letting him waste his time with Snape?

 

Dumbledore seemed to catch on Harry’s train of thought – maybe he was just _that_ transparent, he thought sourly – because the old man managed a faint smile. “A critical situation may sometimes cause one to lash out. Many wounded creatures attack those that approach them, in fear of being hurt more. It is quite a natural and comprehensible reaction…” he trailed as his gaze rested on Ron’s still body once more. “I was not expecting it to be so… virulent.”

 

Pomfrey gave a little cough that drew the Headmaster’s attention, and he seemed to snap out of his contemplation. “Poppy, please fetch Severus. Maybe he’ll be able to… resist this onslaught better than I did.” Harry opened the widest eyes as the matron nodded and disappeared to her office.

 

“Snape, professor?” the last Potter protested. “Can he really do something about this if you couldn’t?”

 

“ _Professor_ Snape and I have different ways of using Legilimency, my boy”, Dumbledore said gently but with a touch of warning. “We are merely trying to find the key that will open the lock Ronald has put on himself.”

 

Harry still wasn’t very happy with the idea of Snape probing around his best mate’s unconscious mind, but if these were Dumbledore’s orders, he’d have to resign himself to them. He just hoped the greasy git wouldn’t poke his oversized nose where it didn’t belong. Harry suddenly started. He knew Ron was always the first to shake him awake when he had nightmares… Whenever it got too awful, he often found himself woken up by a concerned redhead with an expression of worry on his freckled features. He was privy to most of Harry’s best-kept secrets. Oh, please, don’t let Snape look at these particular parts of Ron’s mind…!

 

Speaking of the overgrown bat, the sinister teacher just entered the hospital wing, his face closed and unreadable as usual. Dumbledore stood up, strode to the former Potions master and spoke in a murmur. Even as he did his best to crane his neck and analyse Snape’s face, Harry couldn’t find anything that betrayed emotion. Well, maybe Snape had raised his eyebrows at one point, but honestly, everything about Ron’s current situation was raised-eyebrows-worthy.

 

Eventually, Dumbledore gave the teacher some space. The former Death Eater brandished his wand, muttered “ _Legilimens_ ” and Harry mentally begged Ron to resist the greasy bat’s spell. Not only for Harry’s ego, but also for his friend’s own privacy. Harry dreaded what Snape might do with the knowledge of his best mate’s humongous crush on a certain know-it-all.

 

The tendril of light burst forwards to connect with Ron’s forehead, and the reaction was immediate. Pale, freckled arms tensed, revealing discreet muscles, covered by the intricate rosy and silvery curls of his scars. His big hands curled into fists, and his jaw clenched. The light faded in less than a second and Ron immediately relaxed, while Severus Snape’s body slumped forwards, his beady eyes wide and his mouth agape, sweat covering his forehead and his legs looking ready to buckle underneath him.

 

The ex-Potions master was looking so dumbfounded that Harry had to remind himself that Ron had risked death to stop himself from collapsing in giggles. Still, he made a mental note to get his best mate a box of Honeydukes’ finest chocolates to thank him for the beautiful spectacle that was a flabbergasted Snape. Too bad Colin hadn’t been there to take a picture!

 

Madam Pomfrey was at the Professor’s side immediately, even though Snape seemed to want nothing more than elude her grasp. After a brief struggle, Snape accepted to drink a potion, looking murderous as he did so. The matron glared at him before escaping to her office.

 

“Severus?” Dumbledore asked gently. Harry crossed his fingers.

 

The ex-Death Eater glared at Ron, who ignored him superbly. Of course, he had the advantage of being comatose.

 

“Blocked”, Snape uttered, gritting his teeth.

 

“I assume you felt…” Dumbledore’s gaze briefly shifted to Harry, then back to Snape.

 

“Obviously”, drawled the irritated Potions master. “Hotheads like Weasley cannot keep their thoughts to themselves.”

 

Harry was confused now. Had they managed to read Ron’s mind in the end?

 

Dumbledore gave a weary sigh as he lowered himself back into his seat, and pensive silence ensued. The Boy-Who-Lived was getting really uncomfortable, and to be honest, annoyed with all these non-sequiturs. Were they all supposed to stay quiet until divine inspiration deigned to come to one of them?

 

“So?” he asked loudly, startling the two teachers out of their reveries. “What happened in there? Did you enter his mind or not?”

 

Snape pursued his lips into an ugly snarl, glaring daggers at Harry, who wasn’t intimidated.

 

“You said you felt his thoughts… _sir_.”

 

That did the trick. Snape, livid, rose from his chair.

 

“As a matter of fact, Potter, it doesn’t take a genius Legilimens to read the mind of most children. You may imagine you can conceal your thoughts effectively, but truth be told not many of you have the discipline, the wisdom nor the intelligence required to practice Occlumency.”

 

“Severus”, Albus interjected softly, seeing the last Potter bristle.

 

But Snape only got closer to Harry, shoving his greasy nose in the Boy-Who-Lived’s personal space, still speaking in a silky, dangerous voice.

 

“Be grateful for your friend’s predicament, for he has just demonstrated the most useless form of Occlumency to you: a mental defence that bares the mind in a foolish attempt to push away the attacker.”

 

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Harry replied almost without thinking, lips twitching in an involuntary smirk. “You couldn’t get to him.”

 

If it was possible, Snape got even more livid. “Don’t get smug, Potter. Or do you wish Weasley to sleep forever?”

 

Harry felt his jaw twitch, and at the moment he was about to bellow in Snape’s face, the door was flung open, letting an absolutely dishevelled Hermione enter, her face flushed and tear-stained. The hospital wing went quiet once more, as the young girl dazedly scanned her surroundings. Her brown eyes finally fell on Ron’s unconscious form, and she gave a choked gasp, her hand flying up to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes once more, and Harry felt even more helpless than before as soft keening sounds left her body.

 

“Oh, do keep quiet”, Snape snapped, cutting Hermione’s sobs short. That was it, thought Harry furiously as he turned back towards the greasy git…

 

Dumbledore, luckily, intervened once more. “Weeping will not bring Mr Weasley back among us, I fear. He was rather clear about his feelings.”

 

Harry looked at his Headmaster as though the old man had just admitted to be particularly proficient at dancing the boogie on ice-skates.

 

“I am glad you joined us, Miss Granger, for you and Harry are the ones Ronald might… possibly… open his mind to.”

 


	4. Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am immune (Wildfire!)  
> Because of you (Wildfire!)  
> I'm fireproof (Wildfire!)  
> Because of you (Wildfire!)  
> \- Wildfire, by Crusher-P
> 
> This is it, folks. We're diving in.

Harry was suspended in mid-air. The arms of his school robes had been caught in massive thorns. His legs were tangled between dry, leafless branches that did not even strain under the weight of the sixteen-year old. Dead vines covered in thorns circled his waist, stabilizing him. Gulping, the teen realized he was trapped in a forest of overgrown, lifeless brambles.

 

Harry fidgeted to free himself from the embrace of the dead vegetation but quickly realized that he might, for all intents and purposes, only succeed in falling to the ground and break his neck. He decided it might be more prudent to stay put and wait for Ron to help…

 

The mere thought of his best friend in the world shook him out of his stupor. He shot quick glances in every direction, only to be met by the same spectacle. Dried, dead, creaking branches with menacing thorns, their bleak shadows looking awfully like burn marks, in a world of ominous silence where no sun was visible. No green leaves to be seen, only dull greys and browns, each vine wrinkled by the lack of humidity.

 

Harry couldn’t believe it.

 

This was _Ron_ ’s mind?

 

There had to be a mistake. Ron was a happy person. Ron wouldn’t – couldn’t – be a sea of endless spiky brambles plunged in obscurity. He’d be a sun in the summer sky, brightening the world without even realizing it; or a mother Hungarian Horntail shielding her eggs with her immense wings stretched protectively and her fire breath at the ready; or a good old trustworthy broom that would take you to Jupiter if you asked it to…

 

But this? This was the absolute antithesis of Ron. Harry wondered if he hadn’t accidentally wandered into Snape’s mindscape instead, but he figured he’d have been rejected already if that was the case, leaving him to contemplate the very disturbing possibility that this – this desolate, barren world filled with dead and deadly thorns – was actually his best friend’s. He just couldn’t believe it. It lacked everything Ron was: life, light, comfort, joy, warmth…

 

Speaking of warmth, was it just him, or was it getting rather – er – hot in there?

 

Harry found beads of sweat pooling on his forehead, which confirmed that the sudden change in temperature wasn’t just a product of his imagination. It wasn’t the comfortable warmth of a fireplace, either: it was angry, choking heat, more like a volcano.

 

It was at that instant that Harry noticed a rapidly-growing line of red in the distance, chasing the darkness away. Or, rather, engulfing the darkness in scorching, furious fire.

 

The teenager had never seen anything like this; the inferno was fast, so fast even his Firebolt wouldn’t have outraced it. A forest fire, hurtling forwards at a terrifying speed, consuming the brambles, devouring the shadows, crackling angrily and making the branches fall down into the unknown. Harry closed his eyes, willing some tears to come out and soothe their painful dryness, but the smouldering flames would have none of this.

 

“Ron…? Please…” he mumbled as he felt the fire growing closer, _closer_.

 

Anger, fire, now this he could associate with his friend. Maybe not in such a destructive way, but still… Well, he _had_ associated Ron to one of the most ferocious dragons in existence, so he supposed it could be true. His best friend did have an explosive temper, getting riled up at the littlest things… But it couldn’t be so terrible, surely. Ron didn’t fight needlessly, he wasn’t as volatile as to fling himself to somebody without having a good reason. What did these flames mean? Was it just Ron’s anger, or was it something else, like wrath or… or hatred?

 

Harry had been internally monologuing for a full minute now and he wondered how the untameable, scorching wildfire hadn’t already reduced him to a pile of mind-ashes. He risked opening his eyes, and was surprised to discover that the racing inferno had just… stopped in front of him, as if it was waiting for something.

 

The Boy-Who-Lived was suspended in the air by overgrown dead brambles and surrounded by a wall of fire, and all of that was happening within his best friend’s unconscious mind. Said best friend whom he was supposed to drag out of said unconscious mind.

 

“… Ron?” he asked breathlessly, despite not technically needing oxygen here.

 

The flames briefly died down, taking the light with them, before rising again. Harry realized he had just witnessed _fire_ blink.

 

Then, something very odd happened – and Harry was familiar with odd things, considering he was a wizard and had seen what was hidden in the Department of Mysteries. The idle fire crackled softly, and a quick little flame tendril _reached_ _out_ towards him before retreating. He blinked. The flame reached out – almost tentatively – again.

 

The scarred teenager noticed at that instant that the unbearable heat had turned into a pleasant warmth that he was much more willing to accept as a part of his best mate’s inner workings. Unconscious or not, Ron had obviously realized that this new mind-invader was a tolerable one. The green-eyed boy didn’t know whether he should be grateful or scared, but what could he do? He was still entrapped in spiky vines.

 

The walls of fire stayed put, the flame broke out from them – and this time, it managed to reach Harry’s robes, which were promptly set on fire.

 

Oddly, the Boy-Who-Lived didn’t panic. He wondered if he should, but he was pretty sure that being set ablaze wasn’t meant to make you feel good, or comfortable, or safe, yet for some reason he found out he was all three as his school robes lit up all the way to his shoulders.

 

Harry wasn’t sure why, but he felt welcomed, just like back in his fourth year after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Little embers erupted in what he thought could be described as a gleeful manner, and he smiled. It was the strange and pleasant feeling of being back into a friend’s embrace once again. The fire slowly enveloped him, and he felt very much at peace, not wanting to go, even if he had to stay trapped in brambles forever. He heard a cracking sound – yet he didn’t panic, knowing that he was _safe_ , despite everything telling him otherwise.

 

And now it was cold, oh so cold, and he felt so heavy he wondered if he’d ever walk again, and someone was tugging on his shoulder – and he opened his eyes to find himself back in Hogwarts, in the hospital wing, in the very cold room, away from the kind fire, with Dumbledore watching him in worry, Snape with a disgusted sneer on his face, and Hermione looking frantically from him to Ron to him to Ron to him to…

 

The raven-haired teenager immediately turned his head – cold, cold, cold was the air on his skin as he moved – and saw his best friend, still unconscious, still unfeeling, still lost in his own blazing mind. Harry, however, didn’t know whether or not to blame his own imagination for it, but as he gazed upon his first and best friend’s pale, freckled face, he couldn’t help but think that Ron, instead of being rigid with pain, was looking peaceful.

 

“Harry?” Hermione pleaded in a small voice.

 

The teen shook his head, feeling as though his skull was weighing a ton and his neck would snap with the mere effort of keeping it upright. He felt horribly sluggish, and he probably would have chuckled at this, had he had the energy. Sluggish… Slughorn…  Slugs… Come to think of it, Ron had rotten luck when it came to gastropods.

 

“Harry”, Dumbledore said gently, placing a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “Do you need to sit down?”

 

That would actually be fabulous, now that he thought about it. He wanted to sleep as well, it was unfair for Ron to be the only one snoozing. Maybe the gentle fire would find him and warm him up again, he was so cold…

 

“ _Ennervate_ ”, an irritated voice drawled, and Harry was – rudely – brought back to the land of the living, very aware of a dull ache in his temples, while his entire body felt like sweat-drenched cotton.

 

“Severus!” Dumbledore said forcefully, which made Hermione gape – never had she heard the old Headmaster snap at anyone.

 

“There is no time to dawdle, Potter will have to survive”, Snape drawled while Harry groaned and gripped his forehead. “Granger, your turn.”

 

Hermione startled and hurried to Ron’s side. Just seeing him… so devoid of life, his chest barely lifting with his breath, so still and cold, so pale… Even the cute freckles that covered his cheeks and nose looked dull and faded. His long, coppery eyelashes, that gained a golden glint when light fell upon them, were not even fluttering. Beneath his eyelids were what she knew to be the most mesmerizing blue eyes she had ever seen, that never seemed to settle on one hue. They could be a tormented, stormy ocean blue, they could be the tender blue of a forget-me-not, or a chilling, pale crystal blue; they changed all the time, with the weather, with the lighting, with his mood...

 

 She wanted nothing more than to hold his hands, his large, clumsy hands with long, almost feminine fingers, slightly calloused by Quidditch and chores around the Burrow, faint little freckles dotting their pale, diaphanous skin. She wanted to bend down and kiss him full on the lips, to discover their texture, their taste, and when she’d stand back up she wanted to see his baby blue eyes open, as if they were the stars of a modern rethinking of Sleeping Beauty. She wanted… she wanted…

 

“Anytime, Miss Granger!”

 

Snape’s angry remark cut through her reverie like an overheated knife cuts through butter, and Hermione startled yet again. She sniffled loudly, forced herself to swallow down her tears, and unsteadily pointed her wand towards Ron – the boy she felt more than friendship for.

 

She wanted to press her lips to his forehead and smooth his shaggy red locks, maybe like a mother would do, but most importantly like a lover could do. She wanted to ask his permission before forcibly entering his thoughts and violating his privacy. She wanted to apologize for how she had treated him these past months.

 

But what she wanted and what she did were two different things, for she instead said “ _Legilimens_ ” the way Harry had previously done and then she felt herself slip away and she was somewhere else…

 

The ex-Potions Master saw the Granger girl’s body slump forward and lazily flicked his wand, stopping her fall. Her eyes were unblinking and slightly glazed over, just like Potter’s had been a few minutes ago. Her breathing was slow. Normally, she would come back to her senses right about… now.

 

She gasped and blinked feverishly, and Severus released his magical hold on her… which caused her to fall on her backside to the floor, with an expression of dumb confusion on her face that made it look like she had drunk too much Firewhiskey. Albus shot Severus a look, and the teacher reluctantly grabbed the girl’s sleeve and made her sit on one of the chairs around Weasley’s comatose body.

 

Meanwhile, Potter was readjusting his glasses and gaping at his surroundings, obviously unable to figure out why he was feeling so feeble and out of place. Severus almost snorted with disdain. A true Potter, obviously, he needed to be told everything to even begin to understand what was happening to him. And Albus still insisted on coddling that stupid child…

 

“There was fire…”

 

His head sharply turned to the Granger girl, who was forcing herself to recover but could barely keep her head up. To think she could have made a fine potions maker had she bothered to experiment; but no, she just followed the instructions religiously without even questioning the brewing process. Have her prepare a deadly poison without telling her what she was making, then tell her to drink it, and she would do it. Idiot girl.

 

“… and vines… with thorns… brambles, dry brambles everywhere, and then everything was burning…”

 

Seemed Weasley had reserved them the same _warm welcome_ he had gotten then. However, according to Granger’s babbling, the boy’s inner inferno hadn’t swept her away in a torrent of furious screams and destructive, ridiculous teenage feelings.

 

Ridiculous. All of it, ridiculous. That was all there was to it. Weasley made mountains out of molehills. That was all there was. No reason to cause such commotion, none at all.

 

None at all.

 

Potter confirmed Granger’s experience inside Weasley’s mindscape to Albus. It was telling, actually, the way a mind shaped when its owner couldn’t control it. Spikes and thorns, probably an unfortunate encounter with a briar bush, and there you formed the aspect of your very first mental barriers. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and all that rot.

 

Albus was back to looking pensively at Weasley while Potter and Granger were fidgeting. It was driving Severus mad. Couldn’t children learn to sit still for one minute? Was it necessary to waste their already limited attention span by twiddling their thumbs?

 

“As I thought, Ronald recognized your presence, but he still pushed you away, you say?”

 

Potter confirmed with a shaky nod. Albus was back to gazing at the unconscious boy. Granger looked on the verge of tears again; oh for the love of Salazar, someone cast a Dry-Eye Hex on her or he’d do it himself!

 

However, before he could do it, Albus sighed and turned to the two children.

 

“I hoped he would wake after your visit, but it seems you’ll have to return to your friend’s mind. Both of you, this time.”

 

Severus knew that more than one people could read the same mind at the same time; however, two people actively _entering_ a mind at once? No, that was reckless. Dangerous.

 

“Albus…” he began, only to be dismissed.

 

“If Ronald was in a conscious state of mind, I wouldn’t even think of it, Severus”, his friend explained. “But the boy was rather clear with his feelings, was he not?”

 

Yes. Yes he was. The raging inferno that had all but blasted Severus away had been choke-full of contradicting emotions, longing and resentment and anger and happiness, a need to scream and to be heard once and for all.

 

Snape looked at the two dunderheads whose faces radiated with hope.

 

He thought about the glimpse of the violent emotions Ronald Weasley had all but assaulted him with.

 

He smirked inwardly. Granger and Potter were in for a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an idea and two scenes in mind when I began this fanfic. The idea was for Harry and Hermione to discover what it was like to be Ron, to be the character people dismiss as having a teaspoon's worth of feelings and maturity even though that's simply not true, and one of the two scenes was Harry's first look at Ron's mind, that takes the form of a forest of flaming dead brambles...  
> As for the other scene... *evil cackling* You'll have to wait and see.


	5. Downfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real fun begins.

Hermione felt… light. Not light-headed but light, like she had shed her flesh body to become pure mist. For a second, she had trouble remembering what she had been doing, then she snapped back to reality. She had cast _Legilimens_ on Ron’s prone body, along with Harry, which meant…

 

She opened her eyes.

 

To her surprise, she wasn’t trapped by thorns and vines this time. She was simply sitting on one of the dead branches that composed Ron’s mindscape.

 

The young woman had researched Occlumency as soon as Harry had begun taking lessons with Snape. She was no practical expert – she didn’t have anyone to test the efficiency of her own mental shields – but she knew a bit of terminology.

 

The mindscape was, basically, the way a mind was shaped. Its owner could visualise it and modify it at will, and the most skilled of Occlumens could make theirs resemble something akin to a black hole: an inky abyss that never let anything out… or in.

 

However, when a person was unconscious – _or in a coma_ , she thought in despair – their mindscape escaped their control and shaped itself according to their personal history. Traumas, childhood fears, accidents, nightmares... Hermione looked over the forest of humongous brambles. For some reason she had expected spiders to emerge, but perhaps Ron’s… outer layer of protection had formed itself even before his phobia had appeared.

 

Most of her knowledge was theoretical. She didn’t even know if those spiky briars were _supposed_ to act as protection. Actually, if there was anything that protected Ron’s mind in this forest, it was the raging fire that could erupt at any moment…

 

She paused in her reflexions. Where was the fire, anyway?

 

And where was Harry?

 

This thought snapped her right back to her senses.

 

Harry! She had to find him! She had entered Ron’s mindscape right alongside him, after all!

 

“Harry? HARRY!” she began screaming.

 

What if they had been separated? What if he hadn’t performed the spell correctly? What if he had been taken to another protective layer? What if he had been found by the guarding fire? What if they were at opposite corners of Ron’s mind?

 

Her brain slowed down a second. Were there even corners in a mind?

 

Luckily, Hermione was saved from digging herself deeper in panic by the sound of her brother-figure answering her call.

 

“Down there, Hermione! You can jump, it’s fine!”

 

Jump?! No, thank you. She was very comfortable on that big branch. Its thorns were rather nice-looking now that she looked closely. Very… sharp and… pointy. Fascinating. They didn’t resemble any plants that she knew of. She wondered if they were just a product of Ron’s own imagination or if he was knowledgeable enough in Herbology for his mind to summon an actual vegetal species to enact as its defence.

 

“Hermione, just jump, damn it!” Harry’s voice snapped, becoming angrier.

 

Harry could take any tone of voice, she wouldn’t jump! She would stay there! Maybe she’d find a way to climb down but she refused to jump!

 

“I told you you could jump!” a very exasperated Harry said. After a moment of silence, he added “I’ll just leave you up there and find Ron myself, then!”

 

Something stirred within Hermione. Ron… Yes… It was for Ron, wasn’t it?

 

Could she really jump?

 

She peeked down. Tangled branches with sharp thorns seemed to be pointing accusingly at her, as if they were waiting for her fall, to pierce her skin and rip her apart. She could spot Harry’s pale silhouette down there… very far down there…

 

If she closed her eyes… maybe…? No, no she couldn’t, not with her eyes closed, not with her eyes open, no no no no –

 

Suddenly she felt herself slip.

 

She opened terrified wide brown eyes and a piercing scream resounded in the forest of dead briar as Hermione tumbled forward.

 

But instead of pummelling down like a normal human being – which meant with all the elegance and lightness of a stone brick – she found her fall to be gentle and smooth, the menacing thorns seemed like they were moving away from her, and when she finally reached the ground, she could swear she had seen glimmering embers swirl around her as she landed.

 

Harry was looking at her impatiently, his mouth in a thin line, his eyes narrowed. She knew she was at fault for keeping them stuck there for a few precious minutes, with her reticence to get down. But really, how could she have known there was some sort of magic spell to slow her fall?

 

Harry turned away from her and began walking, and she was tempted to chide him for being immature until she saw just where he was heading.

 

The ground of the bramble forest was dark and almost invisible but for a silvery, sinewy thread that seemed to pulsate beneath her feet. At the very end of this vein of light was a big wooden door, that very much resembled the Burrow’s main entrance.

 

This had to be the way to Ron’s consciousness!

 

Hermione gasped in joy and ran to Harry’s side. Her companion gave her a slightly smug smirk and she rolled her eyes. Fine, fine… But she was afraid of heights after all! She was pretty sure her own unconscious mindscape’s protection would involve cliffs or an out-of-control broomstick.

 

Now that she thought about it, this little adventure seemed like an excellent opportunity for her to learn more about Occlumency, and Legilimency as well. She could write an extra-credit paper about this! Or even a book! And of course, give Ron the credit he deserved for her discoveries! She’d need to apologize to him. Let bygones be bygones… Well, not entirely. He was dating Lavender after all. But she wouldn’t isolate him anymore. Once he’d wake up she’d go back to being his friend, even if that was all she’d ever be.

 

She didn’t have time to be depressed by the thought, though, because Harry opened the door.

 

The two friends found themselves in a room that reminded them a lot of the Great Hall, down to the enchanted ceiling that showed clear blue skies. Harry spied the three hoops of a Quidditch pitch sprouting from the stone walls and found himself smiling. A bright orange carpet with various golden patterns covered the entire floor, on which were scattered a grand variety of articles: a chessboard on which a few pieces paced lazily; some closed books; two dragon figurines batting their wings at each other; a pile of Mrs Weasley’s sweaters (none of them maroon, Harry noted); a Quaffle and a broom and other Quidditch articles stuck in a corner; various decks of cards (he recognized a few Chocolate Frogs ones)…

 

And, at the end of the room, three big inviting sofas, one of which was turned towards a giant fireplace in which purred a comfortable fire. And of course, laying in said sofa…

 

“Ron!” Hermione cried out in relief.

 

What a relieving sight, to see their best mate sprawled lazily across the cushions, one long leg tucked underneath the other, his head propped up on the back of his hand as his elbow sank into the couch! How good it was to see him turn his head, seeing his long thin nose, his cheeks dotted with so many familiar freckles, his beaming smile, his sparkling blue eyes, stray ginger locks falling over them, giving him this raggedy look that was so purely Ron. He looked so well and warm, so safe and cosy in this room within his mind, that Harry almost yawned at the sight.

 

“Hey! I was wondering when you’d show up.”

 

Harry let himself fall in one of the seats, sighing with joy, and Ron welcomed him with a grin. Hermione was shuffling around, biting her lips, obviously uncomfortable, knowing the last time Ron had attempted to speak to her, she had treated him with cold cruelty, worse than she would have treated Malfoy. Ron tilted his head to the side, gave a nod towards the last unoccupied sofa, and finally Hermione allowed herself to relax. It all seemed forgiven.

 

“So you’ve been waiting for us?” Harry asked. Apparently, Ron did want to get out of this magical coma business as much as his friends wanted him to.

 

“Yup. Figured you’d find me pretty easily. You always do.” He yawned and stretched, before burrowing deeper within his cushions. Hermione was irresistibly reminded of Crookshanks, and she wondered whether Ron would purr if she were to scratch his hair… As tempting as it was, she had to focus on the mission first.

 

“What do you mean, we always do?” she asked, the statement having caught her attention.

 

“Well, I’m always thinking about you two”, Ron answered with a lazy smile. “Of course you’re bound to show up all the time.”

 

She frowned. The way he was speaking seemed… weird, for some reason. Harry had begun to chat away with his best friend, as if everything was normal and they were in the Gryffindor common room instead of the redhead’s mindscape.

 

“Ron, do you know what is happening to you right now?”

 

Harry was a bit taken aback by her question. As for Ron, he just shot her a curious glance.

 

“I’m asleep and dreaming.”

 

“Not exactly”, she said primly. “You are currently in a state called a magical coma –“

 

Harry groaned and rolled his eyes. Well, yes, she could have been more delicate, but time was of the essence, after all. However, Ron cut her before she could launch herself in more explanations.

 

“Yeah, I know, Hermione. I’m just asleep.”

 

“A coma isn’t simply sleeping!” she interjected as she felt her hair bristle as it always did when she got angry. “This is very serious, Ron, we need to bring you back to consciousness –“

 

“I am conscious! I know I’m sleeping. And I also know that this”, he said, gesturing the great, ceiling-lacking room, “is a dream.”

 

Harry was apparently starting to catch on because his crossed arms unfolded and he rested his elbows on his knees, something he had a tendency to do when he was pondering his words. “Ron, you think we’re part of your dream?”

 

“Well of course”, the redhead answered, throwing his palms slightly upwards. “I’ve been snoozing for I can’t remember how long. I even had a dream about my uncles…”

 

Hermione tried to interrupt him with a “Ron!” but he didn’t even seem to realize she was talking.

 

“… then again, it’s been a while, I’ve had plenty of other dreams in the meantime, so maybe I was just thinking about Fred and George… Hey, maybe it’s a Divination thingy and it means Fred’ll grow a beard!” he laughed, as Harry and Hermione started to worry a little.

 

“Ron, you got to wake up, okay, I don’t know how we’re going to do this, but we’re getting you out of here!” Harry urged, getting up from his seat.

 

“Harry, Harry, calm down! I told you. It’s all a dream, and nothing’s wrong! Nothing.”

 

“Ron, this is not quite a dream”, Hermione pleaded. “We are here to help you, and if you tell us what troubles you, we –”

 

“Nothing’s wrong. There’s nothing.” Something in Ron’s blue eyes shifted strangely. “It’s nothing. It’s me. Nothing.”

 

“RON, LISTEN!” Hermione screeched, finally snapping. Her brown hair had doubled in volume, which gave the impression she was walking around wearing a deranged house cat on her head. The redhead smiled, almost adoringly, and looked at the girl with such tenderness that for a moment, she felt her anger cool down. However, she was not going to back down now. She had just found her friend again, maybe she could soften up a bit… But just a bit.

 

“Ronald, whether you like it or not, we’re going to get you out of here, so you better follow without protesting”, she said in the most McGonagall-esque voice she could muster. “You can’t stay in here, away from reality, when there’s so much trouble in the real world.”

 

Ron cocked his head to the side, observing his friend curiously. His smile looked so sad all of a sudden… He buried his face in his hands. “It’s not that easy, Hermione.”

 

“What do you mean?!” she said angrily, losing patience and stomping her foot. Harry had crossed his arms again, starting to get a little miffed himself. Just what was Ron implying? They were coming here to rescue him! It was simple, really, he just needed to follow them!

 

“Listen, it’s pretty bad in there”, the redhead started with a weary sigh. “You can’t just barge in and ask me to come back, y’see? Waking up isn’t my priority right now.”

 

Even though Dumbledore had already told him, Harry found himself gobsmacked. Hermione looked positively horrified. What the hell was Ron saying?

 

“It’s just something I got to deal with. On my own. You’d better go before it all gets… bad.” He spoke softly, pleadingly.

 

“That’s it”, Harry said with all his authority as prophesized Chosen One. “You’re officially out of your mind and we’re dragging you out, _right now_.” Ron laughed at the unfortunate pun.

 

“Harry, really, I’ve got it. You should leave now, or…”

 

The rest of Ron’s words were lost as the room started to tremble, which made Hermione shriek in surprise. The carpet suddenly was split apart by little cracks that lengthened very quickly.

 

“What is going on?!” the brightest witch of her age screamed, as the sofa on which she was previously sitting fell into the newly forming abyss. Harry had sat up immediately, looking all around him for an escape… And he noticed that the ceiling, scratch that, the _sky_ was breaking like a TV screen, as the Quidditch hoops collapsed and the various items in the room followed Hermione’s seat…

 

“I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen”, their best friend droned sadly as the cracks in the ground widened at an alarming speed. “Hope you don’t have anything too urgent because it might take a while down here.”

 

“Ron, what the hell?” bellowed Harry as the walls started to crumble while the redhead just stayed on his couch as if the world ending was a daily occurrence. It might be his mind and maybe he often dreamed of earthquakes, but his nonchalance was kind of scary at the moment.

 

“You’re the ones who won’t let me stay in my coma”, Ron pointed out calmly while entire chunks of the room suddenly evaporated into thin air. “I really didn’t want you to see… Well, I suppose I did, otherwise this wouldn’t be happening… Blagh. Conscious and subconscious desires, what a pain, am I right?”

 

“What are you talking about?” Hermione shrieked as she tried to jump away from a collapsing bit of floor.

 

“You’ll see”, Ron said, as a sudden melancholy seemed to wash over him – none of his friends had ever witnessed him look like this before. He quickly regained his grin, however. “Oh, and don’t worry, you can’t die, it’s all in my head anyway!”

 

And it was at this moment, with the two companions running for shelter as their friend observed curiously from his sofa, that the entire room simply vanished, taking everything it contained away… including Ron, leaving a very confused Harry and a distraught Hermione to stand in a place none of them were familiar with.


	6. Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known privately as "When I Scared The Living Daylights Out Of Every Romione Shipper".

Harry frantically scanned his surroundings, his heart beating fast – did he even have a heart, since he was an extension of his consciousness that was exploring Ron’s mindscape and as such couldn’t have any organs – oh, whatever – and feeling quite stressed. Seeing your best mate and honorary big brother disappear into thin air will do that to someone.

 

Hermione didn’t fare better and was almost in hysterics. The excitement of knowledge and incredible discoveries about Legilimency was far away now. Were they actually doing Legilimency in that case? After all, it wasn’t just the thoughts they were reading, they were actively exploring their friend’s mind… No, not exploring. They were stranded. Lost. Trapped. Imprisoned in Ron’s mind.

 

The place they were in was… utterly baffling. Downright eldritch, Hermione as she felt an unpleasant shiver down her spine. It was as if some toddler had gotten a hold of modelling clay, had copied the world in excruciating detail – and then taken a hold of his creations, and clapped his hands with a great “splat!” to cause everything to mesh together in ways that shouldn’t even be conceivable.

 

Trees were stuck inside clouds, high up in some sort of sky that halfway through the sun became the wooden planks of the Burrow’s floor; the moon stuck right in the middle of a waterfall, splitting it in two, with something that suspiciously looked like the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy peeking through the halves; and it was all so strange, so weird, one would think the two friends had ventured into a Dali painting.

Everything looked… faraway, for some reason, like a distant memory. You remember the basic happenings… but the details are just a blur.

 

“Where do you think we are?” Harry asked, more to get Hermione to talk and fill the void than out of need for an answer. He knew perfectly well she was as lost as he was.

 

“I… I don’t know”, Hermione answered in barely a whisper, her eyelids fluttering rapidly to clean away her panicked tears. “It had to be his consciousness, right? Why would he…”

 

Harry stood still, frozen in place, a deep frown on his face as he pondered what they ought to do next. The strange place they were in, how to escape it, how to retrieve their best mate…

 

Why would Ron want to stay in a coma…

 

To escape the war? Hell, no. Ron wasn’t the type to run away, and he wouldn’t leave Harry to fend for himself alone. Of this, the Chosen One was sure. Nothing short of Voldemort himself could stop Ron from staying by his best friends’ side.

 

To escape Lavender? Yeah, no. Ron certainly didn’t seem to enjoy the attention anymore, and even downright looked like he was really embarrassed by it at times, but going into a potentially decades-long sleep just to be sure his clingy girlfriend would leave him? There were easier ways to get dumped.

 

Besides, Ron hadn’t willingly drunk that poison. So, he couldn’t have known, but Dumbledore had said that for a magical coma to be triggered you had to be conscious of your impending doom…

 

What would cause Ron to refuse to wake up? And why would he let Harry and Hermione into his mind? Why wasn’t this making sense?!

 

“Harry!”

 

He left his questions to follow Hermione’s finger, which was pointing at some sort of sinewy, silver crack in the ground, just like the one back in the forest of thorns. It looked like it was… tracing a path, a way to understand. Like a guide through this mysterious world that defied the imagination.

 

The two of them followed the little, pulsating vein of light through some sort of mix of Diagon Alley and a vast countryside, with the pavement turning into grass or grass turning into pavement; hints of houses and windows either hovering in the air or sprouting from the ground… It didn’t make sense; except for the silvery thread that they couldn’t help but follow and trust like a trail of breadcrumbs.

 

And finally, they found just what they had been searching for: a door.

 

Not the Burrow’s this time, but a simple, very normal-looking wooden door quite like a classroom’s, and their little guide of light was sneaking beneath it as if inviting them in. Harry could hear muffled speaking through it, as if there were people; his heart gave a jolt and he reached for the handle…

 

“Wait! It could be dangerous!”

 

Sure enough, Hermione had stopped walking as soon as she had realized this felt a lot like the last time they had come across a door not so very long ago. Harry shot her an impatient look, which made her back away slightly.

 

“Don’t you think we should be more careful with this? It could be another trick…”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any better idea? Besides, Ron said we’d be fine.”

 

That gave Hermione pause. She didn’t want to risk it… but it had to be a trap… but it was Ron’s mind and he was their best friend, after all… But she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive…

 

Oh, she trusted him, yes, she trusted him completely… She knew that Ron was somebody loyal to the core, but he could also do… unexpected things. Like going out with a girl he had never shown any interest in before. Like breaking her heart and leaving her miserable and aching. Like getting himself poisoned and… refusing… to come back to life…

 

Harry, meanwhile, had absolutely no qualms opening the door wide, and suddenly everything around them changed to take on the appearance of a very familiar sight.

 

“Harry!” Hermione screeched.

 

“It’s just the common room, Hermione!” he retorted, feeling a tad miffed by her scepticism.

 

This Gryffindor common room felt… strange. It looked brighter, happier. Harry couldn’t exactly pinpoint it. Maybe it was the way these fourth years over there were whispering and laughing at some bout of gossip. Maybe it was that little first year – Nolan Beckett, he remembered – who bore a triumphant expression as he clambered inside the room and ran to his friends, all excited to tell them about something or the other. Maybe it was how Neville was lovingly feeding one of his carnivorous plants with steady and confident hands, while had he been working on a potion he would already have spilled it all over himself. All these little details, all these people being so cheerful gave him a good feeling about today.

 

The Boy-Who-Lived felt really odd. He had never noticed the common room was buzzing with so much activity before.

 

Harry suddenly heard a deep, hearty chuckle, and almost jumped in surprise – it was Ron’s laugh! He immediately turned around and sure enough, the tall Gryffindor was there, leaning on the wall, hands in his pockets and prefect badge proudly pinned to his robes, surveying the common room with a spark of amusement in his deep blue eyes and a fond, indulgent grin on his face. He seemed at ease… peaceful… content.

 

He noticed Hermione close by, observing the common room with a bemused expression, as though she had never seen it before. Harry himself felt a bit strange, seeing such a familiar place and yet noticing some odd little details he had never remarked… for example, there were cushions below the windows, perfect to take a nap in the sunlight. Harry had sat beneath the windows plenty of time but he had never given the burgundy pillows any second thought until now. To him they had always been… just there. Not especially striking in any way.

 

Just as Harry was about to take a closer look in order to understand how had cushions suddenly become so mesmerizing, a gasp from Hermione caused him to turn his attention to the portrait hole.

 

And his jaw promptly dropped.

 

From the portrait hole emerged a figure topped with a jungle of wild, pretty brown curls, with the faintest honey-coloured strands highlighted by the sun’s rays and bouncing everywhere, completely out of control. His hands were itching all of a sudden; he had the overwhelming desire to tangle his fingers deep in the fluffy locks, with the crazy hope that maybe they’d stay trapped so he could bury himself in this beautiful forest of hair.

 

A small, delicate hand brushed the cascading curls aside, revealing a lovely little face with the most expressive chocolate eyes he’d ever seen, and even at this distance he could admire the pert little nose, the cute rosy cheeks, and the soft, pink, very edible lips that were at the moment forming a maddening pout, and Merlin, how he wanted to throw himself at the girl and seal their lips together, how he wanted to take these little hands in his, to marvel at how tiny they’d look in his own clumsy mitts, to kiss their every knuckle… Bloody hell, he wanted to put his hands and his lips everywhere on her, actually. He hated being such a pervert – but she was just so… so… perfect!

 

The girl – the young woman – shook her head, making this already crazy hair even crazier and even more amazing, because now it looked as though he had thoroughly snogged her, and it made Harry’s heart soar at the mere idea. She was so petite, so slender, maybe she’d fit just right in his arms – she had hugged him before, but never cuddled… but he prayed he could find a way to keep her snug against his chest and make her so comfortable she’d never want to leave.

 

He knew however that despite all the comfort he might provide her with, she wouldn’t be nestling comfortably in his arms; she would insist to leave and get a book and do homework instead of just dozing off in the sun, and Morgana help him but it was both infuriating and endearing. The way she’d try to save the world all by herself, that girl, and she would save the world someday, alright. And Harry thanked the stars he’d be able to see it happen, and he resented them too, because how could he not fancy such a clever, beautiful witch – that everyone with half a functioning brain would and _should_ fancy? She was amazing – sometimes she was a right pain in the arse, but as she would say, the pros outweighed the cons, and when it came to her, damn right they did…

 

“Ron!” she called, and shit he’d been staring for too long –

 

“Um, yeah, Hermione?” Ron answered, his voice a little too high-pitched for his own comfort…

 

Wait. Wait a second. Harry shook his head. _Hermione_?

 

To make sure he hadn’t gone crazy, he immediately turned to the actual Hermione, and was met with big bushy hair and brown eyes. To be perfectly sure he was still sane, he looked very intently at her face. Her eyes, which hadn’t left Ron and the… other Hermione, darted over to Harry and widened.

 

“What?” she asked in a curt tone. Her voice rang a bit shrill to his ears.

 

She had lips. Indeed. Um. They were… nice, as far as lips went? Oh, hell, this was weird. And she had cheeks, too, that was sure. And a nose, just like everyone else. What exactly was a ‘pert’ nose, anyway?

 

Blimey. What the hell had he been thinking back there?!

 

“Harry?” Hermione repeated, getting visibly more uncomfortable.

 

He couldn’t help but let out a relieved sigh. “I thought I fancied you for a second.”

 

“What?!” she screeched, looking so horrified Harry might’ve been vexed, only he wasn’t, considering this was his sister figure he was talking to.

 

Harry let out a breathy laugh. “Exactly!”

 

The bookworm was still desperately trying to understand what had just happened. First there was these inexplicably fascinating and distracting shenanigans all over the common room, then there was that beautiful girl she had immediately felt jealous of – another pretty face she couldn’t compete with – then Ron calling the beautiful girl Hermione for some reason then Harry telling her –

 

Her brain suddenly stopped.

 

The common room so full of distractions and people and sounds and laughter and words everywhere.

 

She never really remembered the younger students’ names… mostly because they tended to keep away from her… but she could tell that one was definitely Nolan Beckett for some reason. And the fourth-year gossipers were comprised of Tina Cadsworth, and – wait, she had never even spoken to this Tina girl, how did she know…?

 

And this girl that didn’t look like her one bit, was too beautiful to be her, but Ron had called her “Hermione”…

 

It couldn’t be. Could it?

 

“Harry, do you feel any differ… Harry?”

 

Her friend had left Ron’s side – Ron who was being lectured by the pretty young woman – to go inspect a row of cushions beneath the window. She walked to her dark-haired best friend and nudged him on the shoulder, wondering about his sudden interest in the pillows.

 

“They really _are_ comfy”, Harry said in an oddly surprised tone, as if he hadn’t sat on these cushions a hundred times before.

 

“Are you feeling alright, Harry?” Hermione asked, perplexed.

 

“It’s weird. There’s just… There’s all these people I don’t know that I suddenly know, and then you come in and you’re all… _something_ , and –“

 

“I come in? What do you mean?”

 

This got Harry’s attention. He looked at her with incredulous eyes, before designating Ron and the beautiful girl he was busy speaking with.

 

“That’s you over there.”

 

Hermione’s eyes looked ready to pop out of her skull and her mouth automatically said “No.”

 

Harry smirked. “Yes, it is.”

 

“No. I don’t look like this.”

 

“Why would he have called her Hermione then?” Harry said triumphantly.

 

“Because… Because there could be more Hermiones at Hogwarts than me!” she spluttered, an odd feeling of hope bubbling through her, but she wanted to crush it before it had time to blossom through her chest. She had trusted it too much in the past and had gotten hurt far too often because of it.

 

“More Hermiones that are Gryffindor prefects, you mean?” Harry was actually smiling like a loon, the gall of him!

 

“It’s… I… no… but…”

 

She turned back to the scene, heart hammering like mad as she watched her doppelganger, as she looked at her luscious curls, her luxurious lashes, her petite frame that looked more enticing that she had ever hoped to be.

 

Was this really how she looked like? To Ron?

 

“Um, so, what do you reckon is going on?” Harry asked hesitantly, squirming at Hermione’s starry-eyed expression.

 

“We’re seeing everything through Ron’s eyes”, she answered with a tone that reminded Harry of Luna’s dreamy voice.

 

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “So, now you believe it? That it’s really you there?” he asked with no small amount of satisfaction.

 

“Yes…” Hermione sighed in contentment… before suddenly bristling. “Wait a second! I was right! He does fancy me!”

 

For some odd reason she seemed very angry about this. Harry was used to girls being incomprehensible but for Hermione to react this way?

 

“That prat fancies me, and he still went out with that trollop! How dare he?!”

 

Oh. Now it made sense. Perhaps it was time for some damage control? Could Hermione do magic in there? She could certainly work herself into anger-induced apoplexy despite not having a body, and she was still capable of wandless magic… Yes, Harry told himself, it’d be better to calm her down. He didn’t want his best mate’s unconscious mind to be invaded by canaries.

 

However, his plan got interrupted by the décor suddenly shifting and changing colours rapidly, to suddenly become a stone corridor that felt rather familiar to Harry… He immediately turned towards his know-it-all best friend to ask her what she thought of it but she was busy wiping her eyes and mumbling furiously under her breath: “… can’t believe what a bastard… pig… complete and utter arse…”

 

“Hermione.”

 

“… with delusions of a wannabe-Casanova…”

 

“Hermione, something changed –”

 

“WHAT?!” she screeched.

 

“LOOK!” Harry shouted back.

 

 _WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK…_ Ron’s voice bellowed, sounding oddly ethereal.

 

The unexpected return of their best mate – or at least, of his voice – was enough for them to stop everything they had been doing and look all around them, hoping to find him. Harry finally noticed Ron’s tall form a few steps away, covered by his Quidditch jersey, somebody else at his side.

 

Harry immediately signalled to Hermione to follow him and the two of them ran into something that the Boy-Who-Lived would rather have forgotten forever: Ginny and Dean, locked in an embrace and snogging passionately in the middle of the corridor.

 


	7. Storytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bits of dialogue you recognize from another book are from Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling; anything else is mine (except the characters, duh).  
> ... also, yay for angst and angsty!Ron!

Harry couldn’t believe it.

 

He’d rather have forgotten this vision forever because it just made him want to break things and throw curses and scream himself hoarse – Ginny and Dean kissing. Or, rather, Ginny and Dean practicing ballet with their tongues.

 

And there was no beast in his chest.

 

Ginny and Dean. Kissing.

 

He was still feeling this terrible need to pry the both of them apart, but there was no monster roaring for Dean to be turned into a cockroach this time. Just an overwhelming desire to keep his little sister – _Ron_ ’s little sister away from everyone who might hurt her.

 

“Oi!” Ron’s voice resonated as the gangly boy drew himself up to his full height, chest puffing out slightly.

 

There was this cloud of righteous anger, but there was no jealous creature pawing at Harry’s insides as he looked at Ginny’s features. Brown eyes, freckles, red hair. No blood-scarlet locks, no golden highlights in her hair, no pouty lips that the Boy-Who-Lived longed to kiss, no impish and sparkling brown eyes.

 

Just a pretty girl that was his sister, and that he’d protect forever because her happiness mattered more than anything else –

 

Harry shook his head, hoping to clear it. Luna might have been on to something with all her talks about Nargles and wrackspurts entering your ears and messing with your thoughts.

 

Meanwhile, Hermione was just taking in the scene with wide eyes as fierce protectiveness was washing through her in waves. As Ginny said how she could do anything she pleased with anyone she liked, the memory darkened and shifted for a brief moment, and she remembered things – things she couldn’t possibly have known in the first place – Ginny emerging from the Chamber of secrets, tear-faced and whimpering and _just_ _what kind of an incompetent big brother was he_ ; Ginny waking up during the cold nights in Egypt and silently going to his room, and him lifting up his blankets so she could burrow in with him, not saying a word all the while; Ginny as she began to talk back to Mum, as she punched his arm – quite strongly for her size – when he said something she considered stupid; cold sweat trickling down his neck, nausea dizzying him as his throat clogged and dried and he could hear them down here, singing, mocking, _Weasley is our King_ …

 

Ginny coming up to his room and she hadn’t done that since she was seven but he felt her trembling under the sheets, and no matter how he rubbed her arms to warm her, she was still shivering and he could see tears trickling down her cheeks and he heard them sing _Weasley is our King_ and he felt so horrible – and he never wanted her to suffer through that…

 

“D’you think I want people saying my sister’s a –”

 

“A what?”, Ginny shouted as she drew her wand, and Hermione, dizzied by the onslaught of reminiscences, was snapped right back to the actual conversation. “A what, exactly?!” Hermione very much herself wanted the answer, and she narrowed her eyes angrily at Ron’s furious face.

 

 _A scarlet woman!_ Ron’s ethereal voice mumbled angrily.

 

Hermione’s anger dissolved into a much more pleasant feeling of fondness for the redheaded prat. “Scarlet woman”… really… figures that Ron could call Malfoy so many crude things but be left speechless when it came to insulting girls. It was… endearing.

 

“– just because the best kiss he’s ever had was from our Auntie Muriel –”

 

She jerked back down to the world of Ron’s memories as shameful anger bubbled within her, accompanied by a frantic sort of panic, and the distant, hazy voice of her best friend and crush suddenly boomed _SHUT UP!_ while Ginny kept on yelling.

 

“If you went out and got a bit of snogging done yourself you wouldn’t mind so much that everyone else does it!”

 

Cold fear crept up in her – in Ron’s – spine, even as his face was burning in anger and humiliation and he drew his own wand, and Hermione would have thrown herself at him in that moment – she’d have done anything to stop the churning of Ron’s stomach as he realized just what his little sister was implying.

 

_Everyone? No, not everyone’s bloody snogging each other! Neville wouldn’t at least, he doesn’t have a girlfriend –_

_How do you know? Maybe he does it in private?_ a pesky thought whispered, and the cold, painful sensation increased. _Maybe you’re just that pathetic, waiting for Hermione to give you your first kiss?_

 

Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with one hand.

 

Meanwhile, Memory-Harry had come between the two siblings, arms outstretched in a little Christ-like posture, and the actual Harry wondered idly if he always looked this dramatic when he did this sort of stuff.

 

“Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you?” shrieked Ginny as she laughed, a hysterical quality to her tone. “Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?”

 

Harry’s appreciation for Ginny’s wit suddenly diminished when burning humiliation scorched through him. Those were Ron’s feelings – and underneath the protective layer of anger, there was true panic, true hurt, true fear that _people will know, they’ll know I’ve never kissed anyone and that I’m pathetic_ –

 

A bolt of pure orange light suddenly shot out from Ron’s wand, without him moving or speaking, but he seemed too enraged to notice. His thoughts were a constant litany of _SHUT UP_ mixed with several swear words and the quietest plea of _not in front of Harry_. What spell had Ron just cast, Hermione was frightened to realize that she had no idea. Usually the light produced by magic was purely white or a primary colour or even green, but purple and orange were rare.

 

Memory-Harry had pushed Ron to the wall – the two mind-explorers felt a dull ache at the back of their own skulls – and the real Harry cringed at what he knew was going to happen. Hermione had wanted to know, well, she was going to know alright.

 

“Harry’s snogged Cho Chang!” Ginny screamed as tears started to spring to her eyes – _you’re an arsehole_ , a thought informed them quietly as Ron gritted his teeth – “And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum –”

 

Harry had figured out that everything Ron felt and thought, they could feel also. With that knowledge in mind, he’d been trying to prepare himself for what Ginny’s revelation would cause Ron.

 

First there was a blank. Ron’s face had gone slightly slack as he processed the words.

 

And then, one simple, lonely thought.

 

_Hermione…_

 

Harry was submerged by such crushing despair he couldn’t breathe; and oh, it was suffocating, a black abyss, worse than any Dementor…

 

It was as though suddenly he was empty. Void of everything. Of organs, of muscle, as if his body was hollow and frozen and… alone. Everything had just stopped and the world was so still, and so cold.

 

Hermione, so beautiful, so amazing and perfect, in the arms of bloody Krum, whisked away to Bulgaria on a ruddy Firebolt, her arms around Krum’s waist, her doe eyes smiling at Krum, not Ron, her lips touching Krum’s, not his…

 

And despite this sensation of utter void within him – within Ron – there was a sudden, throbbing pain in his chest; so he supposed his body did contain something; but something that hurt, hurt so much he wanted to rip it out with his bare hands so he wouldn’t feel it anymore – and his eyes were getting misty but _don’t cry, don’t you fucking cry you pansy,_ a thought urged as he heard Fred and George’s laughter asking him if he was going to run to Mummy.

 

Hermione was rooted to the spot, her hand absentmindedly resting where she – where Ron – was hurting so much. A few months ago, she had believed that the word “heartbroken” was nothing but a silly metaphor, that the people who were said to “die of a broken heart” were just subjects to a coincidental heart-attack; until she had seen Ron and Lavender, kissing, and the metaphor had taken such a personal, ironic meaning it physically hurt.

 

And now she could feel it once more – Ron’s heart snapping much like hers, yet weeks beforehand – leaving a hurtful hole in its wake; and she hadn’t known. And she hadn’t understood his anger – she should have known – she could have known – Harry was there, after all…

 

Harry.

 

She turned around, glaring at the Boy-Who-Never-Said-A-Damn-Thing, and he took a step backwards, gulping, eyes widened in fear. “Oh yes, Harry”, she thought with relish, “you better have a very good explanation for this.”

 

As if he’d read her mind – funny, considering the situation they were in – the jet-haired teen immediately started babbling, tripping over his words.

 

“You know – I just thought – well it was kind of ridiculous, right, it happened years ago – so I figured you’d get angry at him and I didn’t want the two of you to be mad at each other –”

 

“So you decided to let him treat me like he does Malfoy instead?” Hermione said through gritted teeth, getting closer to Harry, who felt very much like a little mouse quivering under the stare of a hungry alley-cat. “Of course I’d have gotten angry – that’s exactly why I didn’t tell him about my relationship with Viktor in the first…”

 

Hermione’s voice trailed off. Harry had the sudden, bizarre urge to hire the best security trolls on the market and have them protect Ginny from the wrath of the bushy-haired witch at all costs.

 

“Ginevra Molly Weasley”, Hermione hissed so venomously that he mistook the sound for Parseltongue for a second, “once we rescue your brother I will show you just how much you have to learn about perfect Bat-Bogies Hexes.”

 

Harry was very afraid.

 

 _… been going on for two years, with her writing her bloody love letters right in front of me! How could I be so stupid?!_  Ron’s voice suddenly boomed, its ethereal quality unable to hide its hurt and bitterness, and the mind-walkers startled. _“Oh, Vicky, if only you could come with me to Slughorn’s party, I invited that loser Ron so he’d just shut his trap, luckily there’s Harry”…_

 

There was an odd wobbling sound and Ron’s memory seemed to dissolve around them both, only to have them catapulted on the breakfast table of Hogwarts – yes, on it, luckily since they weren’t corporeal the food was safe enough. And even then, it was a memory so who cared about what happened to the décor anyway, Hermione thought…

 

Her reflexions came to a screeching halt as she heard her own voice declare snippily “Oh come on, Harry, it’s not Quidditch that’s popular, it’s you! You’ve never been more interesting and, frankly, never more fanciable.”

 

She heard Ron choke on his morning kipper and she saw herself – this pretty, beautiful Hermione that only Ron could see – shoot him a look of disdain. And even though this was her own self, even though she was merely experiencing Ron’s feelings, she had never felt so low, so… insignificant in her entire life.

 

Hermione realized that she had the terrible power to make Ron feel like a very small, very stupid, very worthless child; she felt his heart skip a beat, but not in the nice way, more like the way she’d herself felt when she discovered that she had gotten an E on her O.W.L. in Defense… but this was – felt – so much more important than a passing grade.

 

 _It’s just that she thinks other people think he’s fanciable, right?_ A panicked thought voiced. _She doesn’t really think Harry’s fanciable. She doesn’t… And I’ve got scars too, and they’re bigger than the one on his hand, that’s gotta count for something!_

 

She could only watch with growing horror as Ron shook back his sleeves so Memory-Hermione could get a peek at the silvery welt on his wrist – a welt that went all the way up to Ron’s neck, curling and curving on his pale skin. As her doppelganger, to her great despair, kept on ignoring the redhead, self-consciousness suddenly washed through him and he quickly put his sleeves back in place.

 

 _… Yeah, but those are pretty much self-inflicted_ , Ron’s voice remarked with such dejection that Hermione had the overwhelming urge to hug him and never make him feel so miserable ever again. _They’re not heroic or whatever – I Accio’ed that ruddy brain, I was the useless idiot who knocked himself out in the first place... It’s nothing to be proud of._

 

_Nothing._

 

“… and it doesn’t hurt that you’ve grown about a foot over the summer, either”, Memory-Hermione concluded as the real Hermione decided that she had never wanted to slap herself more, and Ron remarked loudly “I’m tall!”, which he was, oh he was indeed, he was six feet of neglected, adorable best friend; and she wanted to cup his face in her hands and kiss the tip of his long nose and tell him that she knew, that she didn’t mean to imply he wasn’t fanciable, but that Harry needed a boost in confidence and… and… and what, exactly? Ron needed a boost in confidence too. Ron needed to feel better about himself too.

 

Godric, how had she never noticed?

 

She watched with uneasy knots in her stomach as Lavender – that bint – smiled to _her_ Ron and how his slumped shoulders and bowed head rose back up, as he grew back into his six feet tall, gangly, bony frame, and his usually self-conscious, fast-paced gait slowed a little as he – quite simply – strutted his stuff to the Quidditch Pitch.

 

Behind her, Harry was shaking with silent laughter.

 

“Oh, Harry”, Hermione lamented, which caused his hilarity to dissipate in a heartbeat. “I can’t believe I… Why would he take this seriously? I just wanted to make you feel a bit better, why couldn’t he see that?”

 

Harry really hoped this was a rhetorical question but when Hermione turned to him, he quickly understood that this wasn’t one. “Uuh… I dunno, maybe he was just –”

 

But once again, as if Ron’s subconscious itself had heard her question, the weird wobbling sound returned, Ron’s prideful form dissipated and the Quidditch Pitch faded away; they were back into the Gryffindor common room, or, well, Ron’s vision of the Gryffindor common room, little midgets – students – looking with wide eyes at the lanky redhead who was busy rolling on the floor with uncontrollable laughter.

 

_Harry’s gotten a kiss! Harry’s gotten his first kiss! Bloody amazing, things are finally going right for him for once – shit, how’d it go, I want to know everything, I’ve gotta prepare if I ever get the chance to ask Hermione out –_

 

Hermione gave a whimper of what was probably self-loathing as Memory-Harry described the kiss as “wet”, which made Ron pause in his guffawing, head cocked to the side and looking bewildered – absolutely, adorably, thoroughly bewildered.

 

_What, “wet”? Was Cho under a Drooling Hex or something?_

 

“Because she was crying”, Memory-Harry explained.

 

“Oh”, _shit_ , a stray thought added in passing as Ron’s mirth diminished a bit. “Are you that bad at kissing?” and Hermione felt his intention, felt how he wanted to distract Harry from what was probably a really lousy first kiss –

 

“Dunno. Maybe I am”, Memory-Harry said, and he seemed rather worried all of a sudden, which prompted Ron to search for something funny to say… Something like _I wouldn’t complain if I were her, after all you’re Harry Potter_ … No, that’d probably make him angry – maybe a _well you can practice on me if you want_ , with an exaggerated wagging of his eyebrows? Yeah, that’d do…

 

“Of course you’re not”, Hermione’s voice piped up.

 

 _What?!_ Immediately all thoughts of reassuring Harry went flying through the window. Ron’s head whipped to Hermione, his neck giving an audible crack. “How do you know?” he asked, maybe more aggressively than he had intended.

 

 _Did she kiss Harry – how does she know – she couldn’t have, I’d have known – I’m always with them, I’d know it if they were together_ …

 

The wobbling sound returned, and Hermione prayed – begged – internally for this to be over. She couldn’t face any more of her own idiocy…

 

But as Ron’s mental world changed and became another place, this time the changing rooms of the Quidditch Pitch, a heavy weight dropped in her stomach and she swallowed the lump in her throat with great difficulty.

 

This… She knew what was going to happen.

 

There was still the sharp pain in Ron’s chest, and the feeling of emptiness, but it was diminished by a warm contentment, a feeling of pride – maybe with a tiny bit of guilt, but he was too happy to worry at the moment.

 

The sense of relief, accomplishment, joy – oh, he was so glad he’d played so well… and sure, it was all Felix Felicis, but at least he hadn’t been Gryffindor’s downfall…

 

And then, Hermione arrived in the room.

 

The actual Hermione cringed. She wanted to push herself out of here, to slap her own face, to cast a _Silencio_ on herself – anything, but to listen to her own words when she knew what they were going to be.

 

“I want a word with you, Harry.” Deep breath, and Ron groaned inwardly. “You shouldn’t have done it. You heard Slughorn, it’s illegal.”

 

“What are you going to do, turn us in?” Ron said defiantly, even though he felt his stomach tie in a knot. Damn it, couldn’t Hermione just let things go, once in a while? Let him enjoy a little bit of glory… even though it wasn’t real?

 

Harry grimaced, already knowing how the scene was going to end – how Ron would get angry – and he really didn’t want to experience his best mate’s heartbreak again.

 

Hermione shared the exact same feelings, but for another reason altogether – she didn’t want to be there when he’d be kissing Lavender. She wanted it to end – she didn’t want to see more. She had gotten her wish, she had realized how ridiculously insecure he was – she didn’t want to suffer through this.

 

“… that’s why everything went right”, Memory-Hermione was saying, her tone righteous and offended. “There were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!”

 

They felt Ron press his lips together so the swear words his thoughts were screaming would stay in his head.

 

“I didn’t put it in!” Memory-Harry declared happily as he brandished the still-sealed vial of Felix Felicis in a very dramatic fashion – “I’m acting like Lockhart!” the real Harry gasped in horror and Hermione giggled – “I wanted Ron to think I’d done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking.”

 

It was at that moment that Memory-Harry turned to Ron – and Hermione felt the strangest flutter when she saw those familiar emerald eyes glittering with pride.

 

“You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself.” He was smiling brightly – a smile that filled Ron’s empty carcass with soft warmth and dulled the throbbing in his heart.

 

 _I did it?_ a thought said numbly. _It was really me?_

 

A few swear words followed – disbelieving, hopeful, giddy, as both Harry and Hermione had this incredible surge of joy that left them breathless, like they were flying without brooms, a complete euphoria like nothing he’d felt before, he felt so light and triumphant…

 

_Mate… shit, mate…_

 

It was so perfect – he couldn’t believe it – Harry, Harry Potter, _his_ Harry believed in him – really did – and it was almost enough for Ron to forget what Hermione had said –

 

_Hermione._

 

Hermione lying to him and saying Krum was her pen-pal but he was a bloody rich famous Seeker that needn’t ruddy Felix Felicis so he could have a bloody confidence boost to play right –

 

The giddy, wonderful, warm euphoria that had engulfed Ron dissipated in an instant and his heart was so cold all of a sudden – it left Harry and Hermione gasping and shivering.

 

Then he turned to Memory-Hermione, Hermione who didn’t look as pretty now but was still beautiful no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, and he spat bitterly, imitating her know-it-voice: _“You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this morning, that’s why he saved everything!_ See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!”

 

“I never said you couldn’t – Ron, _you_ thought you’d been given it, too!”

 

Pathetic. Pathetic. He couldn’t tell which was more pathetic. Her excuses, or himself, for pining after a girl who had it all, famous and rich Quidditch players included, himself, for thinking he’d ever had a chance – with long strides, he was already walking back to the castle, broom over his shoulders and angry tears on his face – why couldn’t she ever, ever believe in him, just a little –

 

And it wasn’t the first time she had done that, either, Ron remembered as he wiped his stupid crybaby tears with a clenched fist – when he’d been named prefect, she had just thought it would be Harry – he’d thought it too but it had been him, Ron, not Harry, he’d been named prefect – and Hermione had looked at him like he was some sort of error in her little bubble of perfection –

 

… and she had called Harry fanciable…

 

She always believed in Harry… never in stupid dumb Ron…

 

She had said Harry was fanciable…

 

_Stop crying you useless twat! Who even cries over a bloody girl?! Can you get any more pathetic?!_

 

Harry and Hermione. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, that bloody rhymed, how convenient. They were Harry James and Hermione Jane – their initials were the same – Potter-Granger and Granger-Potter – just written in the stars, right – and how could he compete with that… she was so, so smart and he was a hero – of course they’d be together in the end. Of course it would be this way. He was so stupid, so ruddy blind… no one would settle for a poor, idiotic Weasley…

 

Harry, the actual Harry, couldn’t take it anymore. It was unbearable, just how much misery Ron radiated, how much pain he was in; the Cruciatus Curse almost felt small compared to this, to the maelstrom of self-loathing and fury and doubts Ron was stabbing himself with.

 

“STOP!” the Boy-Who-Lived ordered, and again, it seemed as though Ron’s unconscious mind was actually listening – for the castle grounds and Ron’s furious, defeated self disappeared, leaving in their wake only an inky black abyss.

 

Harry took a few deep breaths to calm himself as he pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers – and a small sob made him turn around to face Hermione.

 

“How can he think this of us”, she whispered, blinking back tears, but she wasn’t expecting any answer; Harry’s regretful glance told her he knew just as much as she did.

 

They had missed it, missed what was right under their nose…

 

Harry contemplated his semi-sister as she rubbed her eyes. There was enough misery here as it was, there was enough sadness already, and they couldn’t afford to let Ron bury himself deeper in his hurt.

 

“Ron?” Harry spoke tentatively to the darkness. “Did you… before all that happened, I mean… you ever… thought about the future… how you’d ask Hermione out, or…”

 

Hermione’s head snapped up in confusion at her semi-brother’s request – and she was met by a beautiful, giddy light that engulfed the darkness, seemingly eager to comply to Harry’s request; and she closed her eyes to better feel this warmth that she pretended for a second were Ron’s arms around her.


End file.
